


After Death, Where Do We Go From Here?

by IJustLikeReading



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blood Bond, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Breathplay, Choking, Creature Hannibal Lecter, Dark Will, Deepthroating, Dom/sub Undertones, Dream Sex, Edgeplay, Fever Dreams, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mischa Lecter Lives, Murder Husbands, Possessive Behavior, Prophetic Dreams, Sleep Sex, Sleepwalking, Smut, Soulmates, Vampires, Violence, it's not as hardcore as it sounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-01-06 09:49:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18386006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IJustLikeReading/pseuds/IJustLikeReading
Summary: There is no rhyme or reason for why children grow into their- gene of vampirism, lycanthropy, etc. There's no detecting it, until it is too late and there are fangs and claws growing out of children, but their parents can try. They're incurable, and without guidance, these children lose their tether to sanity and rampage towns. Scour cities, and wipe their populations off of the map. What do you think happened to Pompeii? Vampires, that's what.Will Graham, is suddenly awake in Wolftrap, Virginia at 5 a.m. covered in blood and shaking. Snarling at the holds around his limbs, coming down from delirium, and realizing he's murdered his only chance at happiness. Hannibal, head of the coven is there guiding him deeper into the abyss. Where will he go from there, except only deeper?





	1. A New Birth

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is really just a thought, I'll smooth out the rough patches later. It might not be as rough and hardcore as the tags make it out to be, it's just what I'm into. We'll see. Be kind to me, I'm fragile and this is my first work.

**FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia**

         Will Graham winces underneath the sharp spotlight fixtures, and feels grateful that there’s not much more for him to say. The trainees shuffle around loudly, talking about the assignment to one another, and gather their things. A distinct cackle within the audience gives him further reason to rub at his temples, and Will sighs into his palms. Above him, the screen has his contact info being projected, a silent goodbye to his students. His students were well aware that he did not do discussions or meetings outside of class, all they had was his email to work with.

 

        “Mr. Graham, I’d like to ask-,” an eager voice shouts over the noise, farther to the front of the door, and clear in its intention to reach Will before he can escape.

 

          Well, most of his students knew his rules. He gives a stern point toward the screen, reminding the voice that that is the appropriate place to ask their questions, has it stopping mid-question. Will grimaces and snatches his thermos of coffee, then makes his way to the empty classroom at his back.

 

           While he was never in a good mood after discussing the reason for blood splatter patterns and discussing the tricky topic on why the supernatural sometimes committed serial murders (who would be?), today was particularly shitty, and Will was very close to giving into the pounding inside his skull. Half of the reason for his migraine came from a dream that had left him shaking in cold sweat, and the other- had come from Molly's fury at Will admitting that Alana had kissed him during a visit to his classroom for lunch. There were several reasons for why that pissed her off. The obvious being that Alana kissed him, but also her disbelief that he didn't enjoy it, and the fact that sometimes Alana paid visits to his _empty_ classroom just for "professional" purposes (that he could now see why Molly insisted in the past that it was far from professional).

 

         During their brief period of dating, Will had worked hard to convince Molly that there were no feelings between himself and Alana. He'd seen a future within Molly, and his adoptive son Wally. He'd seen a calm within them, that he felt would stabilize him from going insane. Will had wanted that life so bad. A life where he had someone to sleep with, someone who'd be waiting for him to return home (and mourn for him when he _didn't_ ) He'd admitted that there had been a time where he'd shared scarce- as well as fleeting- feelings with Alana, but made it clear that Alana was not what he wanted anymore. Then after two months when Will and Molly were married, Alana and Molly had met on official good terms. Now, Will had to admit to his wife what had happened, as well as beg for her not to pack their shit and Will finding they'd left before he could make it home. There had been no doubt in his mind after marrying Molly that she made his secluded house feel like home.

 

         There was no doubt that without them, without Molly, his own home wouldn’t even feel like home.

 

        His phone gave a buzz in his pocket. Will took a few swallows of his bitter coffee, hoping to wash down the acrid fear of it being a message from Molly declaring a divorce.

 

        Instead, it was a message from Alana, and Will felt even more upset.

 

**Alana:**

**Molly gave me a call, and I'd like to apologize.**

**I feel terrible Will**

 

        At the added on detail of her feelings, Will's nose wrinkled in annoyance. He didn't feel like putting her feelings before his own, after she'd probably just ruined his life.

**:Will**

**I'm a little disgusted by you right now**

      It took some time after Will's frank message for Alana to begin typing again. She sensed his desire to be merciless.

 

**Alana:**

**I understand that Will, and I'm sorry. I let Molly know that it was me who initiated the kiss, and she was very understanding towards you.**

**:Will**

**Then I assume she was less understanding toward you**

**Alana:**

**Yes. .and I don't fault her for that, I was out of line. I'd led her to believe I only considered you as a friend, and close colleague, as well as befriended her. She let me into your home. Of course, she was unforgiving.**

 

       Relief swelled within his throat, and Will decided to shoot a text to Molly to gauge her feelings. He'd like to know what he'd be walking in on after work.

**:Will**

**Have you forgiven me?**

**Molly:**

**There is no reason for me to forgive you, Will. You have been honest with me throughout this relationship, it was Alana who overstepped boundaries.**

**I love you, and Wally loves you. See you when you get home**

       Will's shoulders lowered, and he smiled at Molly's ability to forgive him after just a few hours had passed after their tense breakfast. He sent a quick reply returning Molly and Wally's love, and informed them he'd be home after grading some papers.

 

       Alana's message was left on read, because he couldn't allow himself to assure her things were okay between them and because it was true. It was on the mark of their glaring problems, and there was nothing else he could say to contribute to the conversation. Alana was not someone he considered to be vindictively manipulative, yet she admitted to lying to Molly and befriending her for her own gain. She'd been around Willy, and Will couldn't speculate what was going through her head while being in his home with his family. Was she spitting insults at Molly behind her back? Was she upset that Will treated Willy like a son? There was no way for him to answer those questions.

 

        Instead of worsening his migraine with his thoughts, Will got to grading through some of his student's papers. It was sad to say that some of their spelling was atrocious.

        Will drives home like a madman. He's anxious to get home, and soothe his worry down Molly's back, and wait for her to relax into his palms as a sign of her trust. After most of his life spent alone, with an extremely low experience through the touch of another person, Will had started to assure himself with touch through Molly. A brush of the fingers every morning over breakfast, a kiss to Wally's forehead before leaving; gentle brushes that he couldn't find anywhere else. At a red light, Will gives an exhale to release the tension building up between his shoulder blades. He can't help the deep need for affirmation that things are fine, even as he tries to calm down during the long drive out of Quantico to the countryside where he steadily grows closer to his destination

 

        A tiny parcel of land that it is, it is still Will's home, and he feels calm once he steers his tires on gravel up his driveway.

 

        Instead of the dark, empty windows he'd known before marrying Molly, he's greeted with brightness and warmth. An even brighter smile greets him from his wife, it's slightly sad, but welcoming all the same. He can't help but stand there, frozen, waiting for Molly to make the first move. In the background, Wally's voice is fluctuating with the fake sound of explosions and car crashes. He glances into his home, at the cluttered space, but is still surprised that it's different to him every time he comes home with his family waiting for him. _Warmer,_ he realizes, _brighter_.

 

        Fingertip brush against the edge of his cheekbone, bringing his gaze to Molly's. Will studies the wisps of wheat colored bangs obscuring her vision, and her laugh lines. Her soft palms rest around the sharp curves of his jaw. He relaxes into her hold, and gives a breathy, "Hi."

 

        "Hi," she grins.

 

         From there, there's a comfortability in routine. Wally wants to slide Will his vegetables without his mother noticing, Molly sends their boy to bed with a story, and they wash dishes hip to hip without any tension. The routine is a way for Will to wind down from a day of over thinking and constant analyzing, he knows what Molly expects from him, and he's able to settle into his role without effort.

 

         Upon finally heading to bed, is where things change. Molly's lying in front of him, Will's arm over her waist, when she grips his arm tightly. He'd assumed she was asleep by her steady breathing, Will thinks she was sorting through her thoughts and waiting for the time to speak them.

 

        In the dark, she murmurs his name. "Will?"

 

        "Yeah?"

 

         A few seconds of silence pass, then Molly's unfolding from her position. She nudges him onto his back, lifts her leg over to straddle him, and settles her weight onto him. Her blunt nails lightly trail down his chest, her gaze following the imaginary trails.

         Her voice is husky in his ears, pulling Will into her influence.

 

         "Show me you're mine, Will."

 

**3 A.M. Wolftrap, Virginia**

**Will Graham's Residence**

 

         Her hands were in his hair, pulling his curls and tilting his head, her free hand was wrapped around his throat like a brand. Everything seemed to have sped up. He'll look back at this moment in time. He'll remember how Molly's hands seemed to grip too harshly, like she didn't want to let him go. Her teeth left marks on his hip, almost having broken through his skin, like she wanted to leave a mark (and eventually, he'll see that her marks are gone from his body, as well as the mark she'd left on his life). And after he's left his mark inside of her, and they're both curling around each other, he'll remember that his head seemed to cave in on itself.

 

         It had been ignored it after getting home, and now it steadily worsened. His arms tightened around Molly's waist. He can’t focus on the shadowed wall in front of him, his mind is hazy with pain. There’s a cry from Molly, he briefly breaks through into awareness but he doesn’t realize that he’s literally crushing her, and then he’s immersed. There’s a noise that sounds like what he’d imagine the call of a siren, it’s silent, but it’s moving throughout his head in a pounding sensation that he can’t get past.

 

         Will feels like he’s _becoming_.

 

          His insides are splitting apart, and _every. Single. Cell._ Is changing within him.

 

        There’s no thought within his mind. It’s become liquified, and it’s pouring out of his ears in a sea of blood and brain matter.

 

       Something wild breaks free. When Will is done fighting against the change, he accepts his death. But it’s not death he gives into, it’s something made of hunger and pure violence. There’s a presence that brushes against his mind when his awareness takes a backseat.

 

       Will imagines a crimson line that thrums.

 

**3 A.M. Baltimore, Maryland**

**Hannibal Lecter's Residence**

 

       Hannibal sits within his home, his tablet within his lap, and a glass of wine within his fingers.

 

       His eyes which had been previously resting on his tablet, were now unfocused. There was a swelling mass forming in his mind palace, an obscure notion of a grave was shifting.

 

       Somewhere within the world, someone is becoming.

 

       Hannibal tilts his head, admiring the brightest crimson bond he’s ever seen thread throughout his awareness. The thread leads toward the grave, spilled on tiled flooring like a leash of congealed blood. He goes within himself to get a closer look, watching as pale fingers struggle to climb above the tightly packed dirt.

 

       Astonishingly, there’s a head of curls that leap out of the mound of dirt, sending clumps of mud and blood at his bare feet.

 

      They’re pale and sharp-jawed. Hunger and fragility, anger and violence behind tightly closed eyes. Their lashes flutter open like butterflies, and when eyes of ice and crimson are revealed- well, Hannibal can’t bear to wipe this new vampire off the face of the earth as if they’d never existed.

 

       In one of his most precious rooms, reserved for his Mischa, a being managed to form a path to him.

 

      This one- this one he wants to keep. There’s an urge within himself to nurture their beauty, and design it in his image.  

 

       So, he allows them to be free. He births another being, because he’s curious.

 

**5 A.M. Wolftrap, Virginia**

 

**“In the quietness of Wolftrap, Virginia, officers received a distress call from a young boy, reporting the murder of his mother. During the call, the young boy was dragged away in a fit of blood-curdling screams.”**

 

**“We are here at the Graham residence, in Wolftrap, Virginia, where a father is the first adult, in history, to come into their gene. Behind me, Will Graham is being dragged from his family home, and the carnage that he’s left behind, by the SCC. We are unsure of the details, or the science as to why this has happened, but we can tell you-you're watching history in the making folks.”**

 

**“A well-known profiler of the FBI, Will Graham, has just come into his gene. This is the first time in history, that an adult has completely transformed into something other than human, and not have died. We can’t be sure what this means for science. . .”**

 

       Between the swarming masses of news reporters, and cameramen, there’s Will Graham being dragged from his home. The gleaming glasses of camera lenses are zooming in on the blood soaking through his nightclothes, and the flaking of it on his skin, as well as the way it clumps in his hair.

 

       The gleam of red in his eyes is fading to their natural blue, glassy with a sea of tears.

 

      Will Graham can’t stop replaying the slideshow of images in his head. Molly’s torn up body, Wally’s cheerios strewn across the floor, his body close by, and most chilling- there’s not much blood at the scene of the crime. Like another presentation of a gruesome murder, except this time he’s the murderer.


	2. Bloody Misery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I find that I like to state the time and place of things. Usually, if characters are in the same area, I'll state the city at the very beginning of the chapter; and if a character's POV enters from a different city, I'll state so and leave it at that. I won't be repetitive about things- and that goes for Hannibal & Will's POV as well, I won't repeat the city (I will state current whereabouts even if I've already stated them once).  
> I feel bad that it's taken me this long to get this out, but I've been worried about college, and if I'm honest- I've been depressed. Anyway, let me know how you like the chapter

**Baltimore, Maryland**

 

**8 A.M.**

**Hannibal Lecter's Residence**

      The morning (three hours after) of the murder of the Graham family, Hannibal Lector sat in his study reading the latest Tattlecrime article written by Freddie Lounds. Typical of Ms. Lounds' work, this article had no tact, and left much to be desired- yet Hannibal kept reading. His eyes lingered on the last few lines of the article-  **"While Will Graham might have become a literal monster, there's no denying that he's always been one. We should be wary of someone who thinks like a killer, gets in the mind of a killer and gets the opportunity to walk freely- he would have killed sooner or later, his family was just the perfect starter pack."**

Sipping his glass of water to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth, Hannibal gave a brief snarl and scrolled upward to admire the photo of Will. He looked magnificent in his delirious state- haunted with the horror that most would find in enjoying murder and savagery, and yet Hannibal has never seen something so beautiful. Hannibal found Michelangelo's David to have even fallen short of William's beauty and tenacity, despite the similarities in their strong jaw and noses. His maroon eyes drift to the SCC agents that have William restrained by his wrists, the strength resistant handcuffs barely hold him in check as he thrashes; and just barely, through Will's blurred snarling mouth, there's a pearly white hint of fang. Contentment mixed with pleasure build within Hannibal's gut. 

      He'd never believed in a God, and never felt the need to worship anything or anyone; just then, Hannibal found that he was willing (eager, really) to place William upon his pedestal beside him.

     Freddie Lounds' liver would taste lovely with a glass of Chianti wine, but for now- her high school worthy essays were still of use to him.

     While being a prince- a king if you will- could be more tedious than amusing, Hannibal found that it would aid him in strutting through the halls of the Supernatural Control Corp's psych ward without the invasive questions. No one would question his intentions, after all, it would make sense that he would come to ease a lion cub into its first hunt. A smirk teased at the edges of his lips, a silent laugh held within his next sip of water. 

**8 A.M.**

**SCC's Psyche Asylum**

      Will is dragged through SCC's psyche asylum in shackles and a metal collar around his neck. He's dazed, but not confused at what he's done. His mind's usual analyzing and questioning no longer operates with cold calculation, and instead Will is brought to quiet, heaving sobs. 

      SCC had dragged him throughout his home, out into the morning dawn- but his mind was kept in a continuous loop of Molly's barely recognizable remains, a barely torn into Wally, a bloody kid's shoe, cheerios absorbing a thick scarlet liquid. _Barely congealing, and still warm,_ his mind supplies him sluggishly. And he realizes. There's no more hunger clawing at him from within, no pains from his stomach, no thoughts screaming-  _hunger, pain, prey-_ with urgency. The steady motion of his body being dragged encourages barely chewed up pieces of (human) meat and blood onto the tiled flooring. 

      "Ah, shit!" One of the guards hollers and drops half the weight of a heaving Will Graham. 

      The other guard stares unimpressed at the following string of expletives. "Pick him up, you can always clean up afterward. This guy won't feel clean no matter how many times he takes a shower." 

       "He just puked the remains of his dead wife and  _child_ onto me!" He shrilly screams while gesturing wildly towards his soaked through uniform, no longer the pristine blue it once was. Will can barely hear the guard's screaming over the sea roaring in his hears, his eyes were fixated on the mess he'd created. Too shell shocked, and shaken by what had just come out of his own mouth. He shouldn't have felt as surprised as he did, there was the reason his stomach had felt satisfied and warm. What other explanation could there have been? Will couldn't make sense of it, but he'd wanted to believe he wasn't carrying the two people that had been closest to him. . .within his stomach. 

       The guard, still carrying half of Will's weight, rolls his eyes. "Yeah well, keep in mind it was  _his_ wife and child, don't be a fucking dick, Claude. You know how hard it is to come of age when you're young, imagine how he feels as an adult." He makes eye contact with the guard within his post, "Speaking of- hey, can you come bag this- sorry, them," he glances at a collapsed Will in worry,". . . up? The lab, and fuck knows who else, are gonna want samples of this. Open the door also, will you? We need to get him settled in his room."

       Snarling in annoyance, Claude mutters, "I bet he can imagine how disgusted I am," referencing to Will Graham's ability to empathize. 

        "Pick him up," the guard's eyes flash a bright gold for a millisecond, and are then back to their normal brown. 

       After the command was given, Claude snatched Will Graham up by his armpit, and they proceed through the door that had been buzzed open. They leave behind the guard bagging up the remains of Wally and Molly Graham.

      When they arrive at an empty room, the two guards stagger over toward a frail bed. Claude unkindly dumps Will into the bed, and his counterpart more so places him down gently. Will doesn't move from his position, sprawled out, with no defenses. 

      "Consider my job done, I need to clean up." Claude storms out of the small cubicle of Will's room, and doesn't look back. 

       "God he's such a brat." The unnamed guard gives a lingering stare over his shoulder, before crouching down to Will's unfocused stare. "Hey Will- can I call you that? Will? I know your full name is William, but that's too formal for me. I'm not sure if you can hear me, but my name is Matthew Brown." He brings a thin hand up, and pauses when Will's blue eyes fixate on him. He's stuck. Still hovering. And slowly he traces a fingertip along the sharp edge of Will's cheekbone. "But _you,_ can call me Matt." 

       There's no response. Just a steady, cold blue gaze. 

        He doesn't allow that to deter him. "Soon, we'll get you cleaned up, and you'll be allowed down to have breakfast and into the commune area." No response, even though he waits- wishes he could hear his voice-, and so he takes his leave. 

        It was soon that Will was freshly showered. His curls were clumped together, freshly washed, and in ringlets. He was morose and quiet when led down to the canteen. The fabric of his white uniform was itchy, and rubbed against his skin in the worst of ways. His sensitivity levels after turning into some unknown thing had heightened to the point of being unbearable. His shower had been either too hot or too cold, with no way of reaching a comfortable medium. Will had settled for scrubbing as fast, and as harsh as possible (he had known that was the most self-inflicted punishment he could give himself at the moment). And it had hurt. The stinging pain had brought him back to his new reality. 

       His meal consisted of scrambled eggs, hash, and breakfast meat (possibly chicken?) that was so undercooked- that Will didn't want to think of the implications. The thin man sat at his table, unmoving in front of his food. The orderlies within the canteen hovered at the edge of his vision, watching, and speculating how an adult managed to become something other than human.

        He wondered the same thing. Will didn't bother to eat with his stomach turning into itself.

       Long after his food had turned cold, he was taken to the commune room. Other inmates minded their business; watching television, playing board games. . . They were behaving like regular children. Which they were, children. Some of them, Will had profiled. 

       Jack, a young werewolf, who had ripped his preschool teacher apart after she refused him extra play time. Emma, a young siren girl in her preteens, who had lured her stepfather into mutilating himself with her song. He tried to rape her. Even before being something other than human, Will remembered thinking that the real monster was her stepfather, whose corpse had been freshly cooled. He had enjoyed watching his pendulum swing, rewinding the crime scene. 

       Will, in his own way, had been a monster all along.

       Will Graham, another monster in this sea of monsters, is led to his room.

**10 A.M. Baltimore, Maryland**

**Hannibal Lecter's Psychiatric Office**

      The sound of a grown, ridiculously mousey man sobbing, grates on Hannibal's patience like aged cheese. 

      Hannibal, in his lesser three-piece suit, is still margins above the attempt his patient had made at appearing up to par with his psychologist. The material was poor quality, the suit fit ill around his large frame (and did no favors, really)- dark maroon eyes scrutinize the mess before him, inner disgust barely held down with sheer will. 

      When a plump fingered hand reaches out to him, Hannibal stares at the germ infestation with distaste. Even being immortal, with no possibility of attracting a sickness, he hesitates to have the smell upon his person. Avoiding all contact, Hannibal hands him the box of tissues beside him. The mousey man rips out a bunch of tissues out of its container, blowing wetly into them. 

       _Disgusting. . ._ _,_ his mind supplies at the sight before him.

       Becoming a psychiatrist had been Hannibal's choice. He had no need for money, status (he  _is_ a prince after all), or need for approval. This was the truth for his past professions and achievements- doctor, painter, author, bachelor. . . There was no need for the things his careers have brought him, but doing nothing with his unlimited amount of time. . .would have been unbearable for his intelligent mind. As a prince, Hannibal found ways to amuse himself while being in the eye of the public. Most of his favorite past times involved winding people up, and watching them  _go._ Interesting how weak-willed humans and the supernatural were. In that way, when against Hannibal's will, they were alike. 

      The weakest being he'd ever encountered, would be the disgrace before him. 

      "I hate being this neurotic." Franklyn sniffles, and proceeds to wipe his eyes and nose. 

      "If you weren’t neurotic, Franklyn, you would be something much worse." And Hannibal could see it happening. Could see Franklyn being this beast controlled by instinct, even more so than the newly transitioned. Even more so than his darling William, who pulled off delirium with grace- unlike the image his mind supplied of what he imagined of Franklyn being in the same state. 

     Rushing to close the session, Hannibal decides to part with false assurance. "Our brain is designed to experience anxiety in short bursts, not the prolonged harsh weather of duress your neuroses seem to enjoy. It’s why you feel as though there is a lion behind you every step of the way, salivating at the thought of devouring you." He gives a wry smile, finding humor in his words, "You have to convince yourself that the lion is not in the room. When it is, I assure you, you will know it." 

     Franklyn would never become aware of the danger around him. Proven time and time again, his willingness to (almost) run with eagerness into Hannibal's den, on every scheduled session. Even sessions that were unscheduled, clearly a cry for Hannibal's attention.

      Guiding Franklyn, Hannibal opens the door to find. . .a peculiar man in his waiting room. Weathered and austere, the man stands patiently. 

      "Prince Lecter," he greets. 

      Sharp toned, Hannibal informs the man, " I hate to show the same discourteousness, but this is a private exit for my patients."

      Pausing, as if never having to pay his respects, the man continues on. "Special Agent Jack Crawford, I'm with the F.B.I. May I come in?" He holds up his credentials, fully expecting that to let him in immediately. 

      "You may wait in the waiting room," he gestures at the plush, Victorian styled couch. 

      Franklyn, who had watched the whole exchange, starry eyes fixed on Hannibal- was still there, trapped in the middle of two people more powerful than him. "I'll see you next week, Franklyn," glancing at Agent Crawford, "unless this is about him?"

       "Oh no, no this is all about you."

      In Hannibal's experience, everything was about him or surrounded him. When it came to agents and the human law of the land, there was reason to be more cautious. With Franklyn long gone, and no other patients scheduled for the day, Hannibal was ready to commit murder. There would be questions why an agent disappeared in Hannibal's territory, that being all of Baltimore, but there would be no proof. He'd _eat_ all of his corpse, and of course, give the scraps to the lower creatures in his clan. 

      "Please. Come in," Hannibal moves aside, giving a flat smile.

      Like most, Agent Crawford remained unaware of the danger beside him. Only his assurance stemmed from his self-importance. 

      Men of high self-importance made lovely stews.

      Hannibal stared at the agent's form in hunger. 

      Immaculate, filled with antiques and artifacts and a gallery of books in the fashion of Sir John Soane. Agent Crawford admires it all- focusing on Hannibal's collection of literature, and artwork. Hannibal remains at his chair, unafraid of what could go wrong (or right, like having fresh meat for dinner), while the agent strolls around his office like a wayward pet. 

      "Expecting any other patients, Prince Lecter?"

      "We're all alone," Hannibals replies in a steady tone. The only kind of warning he'd ever give to prey.

       More amused than anything, Hannibal states, "I'm beginning to suspect that I'm being investigated," completely unworried. 

       There's an eerie stillness to the air, like the calm before lightning strikes. 

       Glancing over a broad shoulder, Crawford chuckles. "Of course not, no, I was referred to you by Alana Bloom. I was told that you mentored her during her residency at John Hopkins?"

       "I did." 

       "Showed me your paper in The Journal of Clinical Psychiatry. Evolutionary Origins of Social Exclusion in Newly Transitioned Supernaturals." 

       Unamused with his time being wasted, Hannibals replies, "And?"

       Not asking, more demanding, Crawford states shamelessly, "I’d like you to help me with a psychological profile, of a newly transitioned supernatural."

      Interest piqued, Hannibal is sure that he could only be talking about William. His William. Hannibal is willing to play nice, if it means there's a way past the defenses of the law. He could get through on his own, but- Hannibal loves to play games. 

      The conversation goes like this: Crawford needs Will for his ability to empathize, and if he could assure the board- _and_ the law- that Will Graham was safe for society, he'd be able to get Will out. Now where Hannibal is needed, is to guide Will through his mind, changed into a dark room with an unfamiliar layout that he can't find his way out of. Crawford also wished that Hannibal accept Will into his clan, being a new vampire and all, but he understood that that would be asking too much (would it? The agent wasn't really asking) of the Prince. 

       Hannibal of course had already planned to show up to SCC's headquarters that afternoon, and demand that Will be placed into his possession- but, as mentioned, Hannibal loves playing with his food.

       The bright crimson bond had been tugging harshly on his mind for the last hour, and Hannibal was beginning to feel concerned. 

       So he agrees. 


	3. Feverish Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will experiences his first interaction with the ravenstag, and leads into his first meeting with Hannibal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a really short chapter. For these last few months, I've been dealing with; college, my love life, social life, etc etc. Because of all these things, I've been meaning to get back to this chapter- and I did, but everytime I sat down to work on it, I worried if it fit with the storyline. Let me know what you all think, and if you like this chapter!

 

 

 

> **Baltimore, Maryland**

 

**2 P.M.**

**SCC's Psyche Asylum**

      When returned to his room, Will Graham emerges from the fog in his mind. Details of the early morning return to him, things he didn't even think he saw with his eyes being as unfocused as they were. 

       SCC Agents picking up gear as he's dragged out, evidence collection kits apparent in their gloved hands. Faces dour, they look at him, they look away. 

       His pendulum swings once, light bright in the darkness of his mind. Slowing down the motions. Rewinding.

       They look at him-

              _they_

                        _look_

                                  _away._

Twice, keeping rhythm with his heartbeat, the pendulum swings once more. _Fwum. Fwum._

       They- she looks at him, making eye contact. 

_She doesn't look away._

       And then the pendulum swings faster, and he's dragged across his lawn. He's led to an armored vehicle, specially made for supernaturals. His handlers aren't rough as they guide his head and body into the vehicle, and the door is closed. For a moment he's back in his room, fingers limp, but then Will is pulled into the moment when he'd been stripped of his clothing. He'd let them tug it off of him with no resistance- Brown (who he can identify by name now) had been watching at a distance, "guarding" apparently. Next to his limp body, Will was there, watching himself like an out of body experience. He'd had been completely naked, cock and balls shrunken from the persistent cold in his bones- Brown's eyes slowly descend, and his pendulum swings. . .

        _F_

_w_

_u_

_m_

  His mind slowed down Matthew's pupils sharpening into a slit, and the golden light that had begun to penetrate around the edges. Will knew where his eyes were going, and he couldn't watch them move to his southern regions. Molesting his body with sick fantasies. Instead, he watched at Matthew's wide, thin lips opened- and a thick, slitted tongue lashed out, as if tasting the air. He stumbled back half a step.

         Jolted back to the present for just a moment, Will's fingers tighten in his bedsheets. 

         Then he's naked again, and still delirious- but his eyes focus on the hands directing his own. They're feminine and strong in the determined way they reveal the sin beneath Will's nail beds. The small tool she wields shake loose small flakes that fall onto a clear sheet, the white countertop beneath it makes them seem starker.  Then solid, brown crescent shapes fall, and it's apparent that it's blood. Wally and Molly's dried-

         Vomit is projected out from his throat onto the vinyl flooring. The acidic taste within his mouth brings Will fully to the present- that, and his abrupt collision his abdomen took to the edge of his bed. Sputtering, bile and saliva stick to his lips in strings. 

         Simultaneously, a voice calls for him.

        _"William,"_ it croons. 

         There's an accent to it, definitely foreign and lilting. European maybe. More importantly, it's resounding in his head like a string being strummed. It's melodic, and intoxicating. It's what blood sounds like to Will, like something classical and refine. 

         His room door opens, and a tall form is highlighted by the bright backdrop. 

          The string within him brightens, and bursts into an avalanche of red sea. It encases everything he is, infecting his mind with- _William, lovely boy, how I've waited so long to_ \- this being that seems to have moved in within his head. 

           Sprawled halfway off of his rickety bed, Will doesn't have the strength to keep himself from falling into his own vomit. His head feels overwhelmed with thoughts, feelings, lightyears of information he'd never dreamt to think of its existence. This entire new presence feels like an inconsiderate roommate that left intimate pieces of themselves sprawled all over Will's inner world. 

           Gasping and heaving on the floor, Will can't control his shivering. His lashes are damp with forced tears and weigh heavy on his cheeks. 

           The sound of an ominous, muted clacking has Will turning to look underneath what would have been his bed. Instead, he's looking between a wine-colored canopy into a massive room, the crackling of a fire on the far side does little to light the far reaches of the room's dark corners. His eyes roam around, searching for the source of the noise. He briefly focuses on the sensation of silk sheets caressing his skin and comfortable padding supporting his body- a bed. The dim lighting catches on the smooth silk sheets, like a dark sea, and Will's brows furrow with confusion. 

           The sudden sound of movement brings his eyes to a corner where the darkness seems endless, and ever consuming. Something inside of Will brings forward, watching through his eyes. In the back of his mind, Will knows this moment is important, and his breathing stifles. A large, gleaming hoof stepped into the light. Will's chest began to rise and fall rapidly, his breathing stuttered, puffs of carbon dioxide leaving his body in small hazy clouds. The hulking figure of the creature followed with it, revealing a fully grown elk. But it wasn't quite that, it was a- _Raven-feathered stag_ , Will's mind supplies. The label was apt for the creature, who's neck of raven feathers shined with a glossy finish. Will's eyes rose to meet the dark eyes of the stag. 

           His body begins to dip within the dark sea, eyes still attached to the Stag's- Will's fingers claw at the sheets, he finds nothing to hold onto, and he falls through. 

             _D_

_o_

_w_

_n_

              He collides with solid ground, right into his vomit, so forcefully that his breath leaves him completely. 

              The sound of quick footsteps barely reach Will, his prone form is taught with distress. A chilled touch to his left cheek makes Will force open his eyes. 


End file.
